


‘Till Judgement-Tide

by Readertee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not knowing what we did wrong and yelling at God about it), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale loves music hall amateur dramatics as well as bad magic tricks apparently, Brother Francis is hilarious, But Mostly TV Canon, Canon from TV and book have been put in a blender together, Gen, I started listening to folk songs to Cope with the sheer folksiness and then I couldn’t stop, I wrote this for me but you can read it too I guess, No beta we fall like Crowley, seriously what kind of Worzel Gummidge bs is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readertee/pseuds/Readertee
Summary: When you’re going undercover to raise the Antichrist with your Adversary, the most effective way to thwart the powers of Hell is to get really into amateur dramatics and annoy said Adversary with a music hall caricature from a century and a half ago. Apparently.Or, some gap-filling anecdotes from the Raising Warlock years.
Kudos: 8





	1. Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gloucestershire Wassail/Wassail, wassail all over the town, traditional folk - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZiE1JYYwVY

The Antichrist had now been on Earth for about a week, and an angel and a demon had been feverishly plotting how to influence him away from Armageddon for about six days. The exact details of the time involved were a bit blurred as most of this had been done while mildly sloshed, because how else were you supposed to unflinchingly stare down the fact that the best case fail state of your plan is the end of the world?

Aziraphale had last sobered up a good deal more recently than Crowley, and was currently regretting it. They were having some issues with the plan and Crowley's state was not helping in the slightest. "Really, I wonder sometimes if Gabriel thinks I'm stupid or incompetent. Been doing this same job for six millennia, I've thwarted you just as often as you've got one over on me - we made sure of that! Cancelling each other out is the reason the Arrangement exists in the first place! And, oh, you'd think that would garner a level of respect for my professional experience, but no, he seems convinced I'm just playing elaborate dress up. You know how he popped up at that sushi place I like?"

Crowley did. Aziraphale had gone on quite the rant that evening, too, after they had agreed to the Plan. He made a garbled encouraging noise, but didn't bother to speak and interrupt the angel's flow.

"He had no idea what sushi even was! And he claims to enjoy human clothes, but he couldn't even open the vents on the back of his jacket, honestly, a little acknowledgement of the skill and intent the humans put into the things they craft- anyway," he said, calming himself down somewhat, "I've said all this before, dear boy. What I was trying to get to was, they don't precisely believe I'll be at all effectual, Upstairs, but they've agreed to allow me to try regardless. Probably they'll make me report to two Archangels at once, rather than just Gabriel, if they want to 'keep an eye on me' as it were."

Crowley nodded as sagely as he could at that point, which wasn't very because his neck was half-convinced he was in snake form right then. The Archangels had wanted to "keep an eye" on Aziraphale's reports before, most recently in the 1980s when he had worked himself to exhaustion keeping up with the situation in his neighbourhood performing unauthorised blessings and healings left and right. Probably they were worried they had another Watcher situation on their hands, the guardian getting too close to the flock.*

*They’d been very worried about the space race as well, too many echoes of the Babel situation back in the day, humans trying to get too close to the heavens for Heaven's liking. Happily, they left off after God didn't give any sign of caring about Gagarin, White and Walker, or Leonov's achievements. They didn’t even seem to have noticed the Voyager probes or any of the Mars missions, which in Crowley’s opinion was the more insulting - if less dangerous - option after all the effort the humans had gone to.

Fortunately, Aziraphale's shop was warded against any celestial observation, whether from Above or Below, and had been since its inception. If his bosses wanted to see what he was getting up to in here, they would have to come in person. Crowley had no idea how he'd sold that as a necessity, but quite possibly they were uninterested enough in the angel's little human diversions that it had never occurred to them to try.

“Have you any idea how to, ah, get into the household yet, my dear? I’m afraid I have very little idea on, on character specifics myself.” Oh no, it was time for the angel’s anxiety about thinking badly of his bosses to spill over into generalised anxiety. Latching on to anything else to worry about and get Crowley to make it better - though he probably wasn’t aware about that last bit. Poor bastard wasn’t drunk enough, clearly.

”Weeell, I have to look after the little imp, right? Keep him safe an’ teach him to be the worst little terror that ever walked the earth, an’ all that. They want me to go and get hired as a nanny for the little tyke. Not much choice in that one. Joke’s on them, though, I’m gunna make my persona a Mary Poppins from Hell so’s I can claim a movie trip as research. May as well have some fun with the role- oh. Oh, no, angel whatever you’re thinking stop it right now, got it? I’m not dealing with whatever you just thought up for a decade. No! Nein! Nyet!”

Aziraphale, the complete _ass_ , just smiled brightly in that way he had that meant “I’ve taken what you’ve said under advisement, old chap, but my idea was in fact better than you think and I can absolutely make it work.” Generally he got like this when sleight-of-hand magic or amateur acting were mentioned. ”My dear, we both know that our dealings in this matter will be as minimal as possible to avoid suspicion! I’m sure I can avoid any real infringement on your delicate sensibilities-“

”Delicate- how dare- you take that back!” Crowley was flailing his arms like an uncoordinated windmill now, on the verge of forgetting the point of his argument in favour of simple outrage. The only thing holding him back was the near-certainty that this was what Aziraphale was trying to steer him towards. “I swear, angel, I will replace all your vinyls with jazz!”

”Well, there’s no need to be so rude, I’m sure,” sniffed Aziraphale, “You realise I’m going ahead with the idea just for that, yes?”

”You’d do it regardless and you know it, angel, at least I’m not just rolling over about it. Don’t suppose I get to know what you’re going to do in advance?”

“Don’t be ridiculous my dear, that would spoil all the fun. Top-up?” The angel tilted the bottle in the demon’s direction temptingly.

”Yeah, go on then. If we’re not going to plan anymore may as well get smashed. Cheers!”


	2. Stand you fast, sturdy Oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come all you garners gay, traditional folk - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IqpJzJTIis

Brother Francis was very much not a figure meant to go unnoticed, the Winfield House staff all agreed on that. For one thing, he looked like a child's nightmare of a scarecrow come to life - awful shapeless clothes, wild hair and sideburns, and those teeth! It was a wonder he didn't have warts on his face. The only question was just what he was trying to distract attention from.

The staff were wary of the obvious costume, but for some reason the new Ambassador’s family and their security detail were miraculously as oblivious to this as they were to the nuance between, say, Paul the maintenance man’s no-nonsense Bris and the terrible, obviously put-on Mummerset accent Francis used right through the interview. Equally miraculously, the butler had acted in line with his professional training and let the man in rather than reflexively slamming the door in his face. He was still unsure quite how he’d managed to curb that reflex, but the man had after all been the only applicant for the position to turn up - there had been an awful wildcat Tube strike that week, and there had been a similar problem with the nanny position the day before for little Warlock.

Still, even if he was a tad bit strange, the gardener got his own little cottage on the grounds he worked in and was expected to look after his own meals for the most part, so whatever nefarious scheme the man was involved in, at least the staff didn't have to worry about it overmuch. However, Francis turned out to be very personable and willing to help the other staff with their problems, and somehow both suspicion and bad luck seemed to slink away whenever he was about. Within the month, they all began to forget they'd ever felt concerned over the gardener at all - he was kind, and down-to-earth, and talked like the wholesome uncle your inner teenager still secretly longed for to listen to your troubles and give neighbourly advice. Somehow whenever he sat you down with a cup of tea or made encouraging noises while deadheading the roses, all your worries just floated downstream on the river of goodnatured, comfortable love towards all living things which Francis seemed determined to project at all times. It was like magic, how he managed to keep his persona up no matter what, but somehow it came just short of being fake enough to grate on everyone’s sensibilities, like there was a warm pink cloud between you and your jangling instincts that this person was too good to be true.

He was obviously absolutely amazing at his job, too, because within the month the flower borders and kitchen garden were more vibrant than they had ever been despite the fact that nobody ever seemed to see him working on them more than about twenty minutes a week, the mole problem on the lawn cleared up without needing to call pest control like the housekeeper had been darkly muttering about before the previous gardener left, and a family of ladybirds and small flock of sparrows moved in to clear up the mysterious aphid problem that started six weeks or so before. He never seemed to do as much work as his predecessor, but talked to the plants and animals like an encouraging nursery-school teacher to errant children. He started getting called Brother Doolittle and the Disney Prince by the younger staff, though only behind his back because no one wanted to risk a Disappointed Look.

Nanny Ashtoreth, on the other hand, was not what you might call reassuring to have around a small child; she’d obviously taken her aesthetic inspiration from Mary Poppins and the Addams Family, in roughly equal amounts, and brought an unnerving dog named Rover and a spooky aura with her. Her qualifications were impeccable, but she seemed unusually fond of the Brothers Grimm and nursery rhymes involving blood and conquest, and yes it made Warlock laugh, but he was too small to understand yet. He just knew that the person he saw most, who fed him and bathed him and shushed him when he cried, was giving him her undivided attention. How a family like the Dowlings had ever hired her was a mystery, though Jenny and Dani, two of the maids who had had to undye their hair and remove their piercings to get their jobs, idolised her as an elder Goth. There would be an absolute bloodbath among the staff when she first crossed paths with Brother Francis in efforts to be the first back with the juicy gossip for the betting pool. [1]

The odds, per Diana the sous-chef and under-the-table bookie, were 11:1 on bad breakup (driving Francis to take holy orders optional), 10:1 on acrimonious past colleagues, 8:1 on clandestine ongoing relationship, 15:1 on UST-heavy frenemies who would elope eventually.[2] The bet on who they were spying or running distraction for with the blatantly obvious costumes[3] was never resolved, and the money was absorbed into the pool for when Mike the security chief would break down and finally teach Warlock about guns regardless of Mr Dowling insisting this would one day be a father-son bonding experience. [4]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Footnotes
> 
> 1. And make everyone else green with envy, naturally. A certain demon was very proud of that, and put it as an aside in her first report back Downstairs.↩
> 
> 2. Becky, Harriet Dowling's PA, swept the stakes on that last one when the two left abruptly on the same day ten years later. ↩
> 
> 3. 18:1 on the British government, 12:1 on the Russians, 15:1 on the Chinese, 25:1 on none of the above but someone, 50:1 on “they’re honestly just that weird” which only Sharon, Mr Dowling’s secretary - who knew the value of a good caricature costume to get hired by Mr Dowling and constantly looked like a stereotypical 1950s secretary complete with pearl set and haircut, and looked fabulous doing it, thank you very much - bet any money on. 
> 
> 4. Shortly after the Incident at Warlock’s eleventh birthday party. Gun safety was no joke, and at this point his father was clearly making promises he wouldn’t keep. Again.↩
> 
> —
> 
> Aziraphale’s Brother Francis persona is...interesting. It’s very much a music-hall caricature of a certain stereotype, which is more obvious at the start because he’s ungrammatical in the dialect he’s trying to imitate when he turns up at the Dowlings’ house. When he talks to a young Warlock later on, he’s still stereotypical with a strong accent/dialect, but he’s toned it down slightly into believability for a very rural older gentleman, though as typical for Aziraphale even that is probably about half a century out of date due to language changes from urbanisation.
> 
> Because Tad is identified as the Cultural Attaché to the American Ambassador when Crowley talks to Aziraphale about the coming Apocalypse, but that huge house we see the Dowlings living in is seemingly meant to be Winfield House (the official residence of the US Ambassador to the UK), I have him being promoted in the emergency meeting he got called to with the President while Harriet was giving birth to Warlock.


	3. Now I sees ‘e, an’ ‘e sees I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Blackbird, by The Wurzels - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeCwr9MmiIc

Technically, Nanny Ashtoreth was an employee, but it was obvious from the get-go that what she’d really been brought in to do was be a foster-mother to little Warlock. To his mother, the child was a Society pawn and a tool to get back at Tad and her parents for the expectations of motherhood she felt trapped into; to his father, he was a rather abstract political accessory and an embarrassingly-named dynastic outgrowth of Tad himself. Neither parent saw him for more than an hour or two across a week from the day Nanny came to the estate.

Privately, Crowley thought this was a crying shame, but she wasn’t there to care about the Dowling family’s personal drama. She wasn’t even there to care about the lad. She was there to raise the Antichrist to just the right amount of evil. No feelings involved, it would be better that way. After all, if he ended up basically human he would die within a few decades like everyone else, and if he ended up like Hell wanted him to be... no. Best not to get attached.

At this tender age, though, there really wasn’t much corruption to be done, only a great deal of dirty nappies and baby vomit to clean up after and an equally unholy amount of milk to tip into the little beast. It took just under a week for her to get bored enough to feel reckless, and anxious enough at her own recklessness to want to displace the anxiety by excoriating some plants. Both impulses led her to stroll out one morning across the grounds with Warlock in his pram, incautiously close to where a certain angel, disguised as a gardener, was mulching a flowerbed.

The gardener smiled and waved at the nanny. "Awright my lovver! 'Ow bist?"*

Crowley squinted. Was that Aziraphale's "I'm being a bastard and you can't prove anything" smile, or a slightly-gormless-but-kindly smile that you might expect from someone who willingly went by Brother Francis? The awful false teeth made it hard to tell.

”Thic young’un be Master Warlock, ‘en? Oi’ve heared all about ‘ee, moi lad, bin a whoile since we seen chillun in thic ‘ouse zo oi’m tole! ‘Ee bist a gurt good lad, int ‘ee darlin’?”** He smiled down at Warlock like the spring sun discovering daffodils.

Warlock cooed and tried to grab at Brother Francis’ hat. His nanny sighed and tried to reason with the poor baby-melted man, her high-class Scottish lilt slightly clipped with annoyance.

”You’re one of those people who gets all soppy about babies, aren’t you? Do you realise how much disgusting stuff comes along with the cuteness, or do you just hand them back to their adults when they start sniffling?”

”Dun’t ‘ee fret, moi love, oi wun’t do tha’ to ‘ee! Th’ littl’un’d get right mucky hangin’ ‘round of me any’ow, th’ gard’n being as ‘e be, ‘f oi dun moind a bit’ve soil then oi dun moind a bit’ve sick, does oi now?” He shifted back to cooing at Warlock. “Oi’ll teach ‘ee awl about Nachure an’ ‘ow ev’rythin’ in it’s a gurt big family fer ye t’ love an’ play with an’ never hurt, us’ll ‘ave a grand toime!”***

Crowley tried not to fixate on the “my love”s. He didn’t mean it like that, she told herself sternly, stop being so sainted gooey! There was really no excuse for this level of sap, he was just trying to rile her up like any proper Adversary who couldn’t go for actual smiting right this minute (and who knew what he was doing, consecrate it all- no. Calm.) Never mind that it was working on more than one level, that was no need to concede the battlefield even more. Ooh, when she got Aziraphale alone on their day off he was going to get such an earful for this- how did he expect anyone to understand that drivel anyway? She firmly turned herself and Warlock’s pram around and marched back toward the house in a way she told herself was dignified and not in any way a retreat or resignation to a certain Angel’s antics, murmuring to the tiny Lord of Darkness as she went.

”Remember, my lad, the whole world and all the ssanctified Nature in it is your plaything to grind under your heel. Just try not to grind the bit that’s got me in it, or him either - I want to have _him_ to mysself in the ashes, aye? Your Nanny has Plans for that particular Adverssary and I will be cross if you grind him ‘fore they’re done.”

Behind her, Aziraphale smiled and started whistling a happy tune. Today would be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale definitely didn’t aim to be understood, just to annoy Crowley. Neither did the author, it was just completely silly eye dialect writing with the ‘exaggeration’ knob turned up as far as it would go because it was funny. My only excuse is this is an exaggerated version of how old rural people talk in (roughly) my own area, though in this case I’m aiming more for Somerset than my family’s native Devon/Gloucestershire/Wiltshire dialect variants. I promise I will stop now.
> 
> West Country eye dialect to standard English translation
> 
> *Alright my dear, how are you (familiar and informal)  
> **This young one would be Master Warlock, then? I’ve heard all about you [thee] my boy, it’s been a while since we’ve seen children in this house, so I’m told. You’re a very [great, as in large/a lot] good boy, aren’t you darling?  
> ***Don’t you [thee] worry love, I wouldn’t do that to you [thee]! The little one would get very mucky hanging around me anyhow, the garden being as it is [‘e can be he, she, or it depending on context], if I don’t mind a bit of soil then I don’t mind a bit of sick, right love? I’ll teach you all about Nature and how everything in it’s a great big family for you to love and play with and never hurt, we [excluding other people present] will have a grand time!


End file.
